


Flies

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Oh and flies...lots of flies, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 11:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18072872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: An extremely dead corpse's unholy stench draws an increasing number of flies to the crime scene. Confronted by a cluster of the insects merrily lapping at a puddle of don't-want-to-think-about-it, Sherlock backed up a pace and  murmured, "John, please," while miming a shooing motion. Rolling his eyes at the thought of a man too posh to shoo his own flies, John complied. The flies scattered every which way. Some, of course, scattered toward Sherlock. One landed on his cheek.And Sherlock...moaned.





	Flies

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for mention of torture; nothing graphic.
> 
> Time: shortly after TEH.

There are dead corpses and then there are _extremely_ dead corpses, and the one currently being zippered into a body bag outside a London alleyway definitely fell into the latter category. A keen-eyed garbage collector had seen a foot disappearing down the maw of the compressor. Horrified that he may have inadvertently killed a sleeping hobo, he had called 999 immediately. The body that was pulled from the truck was too richly dressed to be a street person, and the three gunshot wounds on the victim's chest proved his death was no accident. This earned the attention of NSY, and in turn, Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Dr. Watson. 

The body had been tightly wrapped in plastic, and since no air could get in, the inevitable putrefaction had caused some liquefying of the flesh. The resulting "corpse liqueur" had a stench so unholy, even Sherlock accepted the offer of mentholated balm to rub under the nose. The detective was poring over the plastic sheet looking for clues, but as time went on, he was growing visibly aggravated. Among other irritations, the smell was drawing flies to the scene. As the number of buzzing pests increased, John could see tension building in the set of his friend's shoulders. Finally, confronted by a cluster of the insects merrily lapping at a puddle of don't-want-to-think-about-it, he backed up a pace and murmured, "John, please," while miming a shooing gesture. 

_The man's too posh to shoo flies himself?_ But this was Sherlock, the man who regularly called him in from a different room to hand him something two paces way. With an affectionate snort, John complied. The flies scattered every which way... 

Some, of course, scattered toward Sherlock... 

One buzzed past his ear... 

One landed on his cheek... 

And Sherlock... _moaned._

John's head whipped around at the sound, and he stared in shock as Sherlock went white as milk. A violent tremor gusted through the man, bringing him to his knees. 

John was beside him instantly. "Sherlock? What's wrong?" 

No answer. A whimper escaped his lips, a pathetic, broken sound that had no place in the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. John tried to make eye contact, and failing that, realised the detective was staring at his own wrists, frowning as if something confused him. He tentatively raised his hands, and finding them unencumbered, started scrubbing at his face: wiping, wiping, wiping. 

"Sherlock? There's nothing there, mate." John resisted the temptation to grab those hands and try to still them. Sherlock was touch-averse at the best of times; in this state, John couldn't predict the consequences. 

Greg Lestrade joined him. "What the hell?" 

John shook his head in confusion. "Dunno. I think it was the flies." 

Greg shifted uncomfortably. "You know what it looks like ... brushing away imaginary bugs..." 

"No!" John's denial was immediate. 

"He was away for two years, John. Who knows what happened?" 

The doctor shook his head. He knew for a fact Sherlock did not habitually drink before he left on his mission to dismantle Moriarty's web. To sink to the depths of an alcoholism so profound he would suffer DT's ... no, almost impossible. John kept up a soothing prattle, trying to ground his friend and bring him back from whatever nightmare was gripping him. After a minute, Sherlock dropped his hands and stared about, eyes unfocused and raw panic written on his face. John felt his heart twist in empathy. With insight born of his own experience, he understood Sherlock's mind at that moment was hovering in a weird, Alice-in-Wonderland limbo, where he was simultaneously living the past and remembering the future. This supposition was confirmed when the detective ground out in a shaky whisper: 

"John? Where am I?" 

"You're safe," John answered, pouring every ounce of warmth and reassurance he could into the words. "You're with me and Lestrade. We got called to a crime scene, remember? 

"London," Sherlock breathed. His fingertips brushed the ground, and he blinked hard, trying to focus. "Pavement." 

"That's right," John encouraged. 

"Not...straw." The tall man swallowed convulsively and looked around again, blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision. His eyes found John's, and the older man smiled. 

"Welcome back," he murmured. 

Sherlock responded with an expression that was almost a smile, then he looked past John and flinched, dropping his head to hide his face. John and Greg turned around to find they had attracted a small crowd of gawkers. The DI was on his feet instantly. 

"Oi! What is wrong with you lot? This isn't a show!" he cried, furious. "Get back to work!" They scattered like leaves. Greg dropped a hand on John's shoulder. "I'm going to bring round the car, give you two a ride. Going home or does he need to get to the A & E?" 

"Home," Sherlock insisted immediately, and John nodded assent. 

While Greg got the car, the doctor took his friend's pulse: rapid and bounding, but starting to steady. His breathing also evened out, so by the time the car pulled up, Sherlock was able to gain his feet with only minimal assistance. 

Back at the flat, John saw Sherlock to the sofa, then busied himself in the kitchen, making tea. He put Sherlock's cuppa within easy reach, then settled himself in his old chair, picking up a newspaper. The message was clear: _Not gonna pry, but I'm here for you._

Sherlock took a long draught of his tea, and cradled the cup with both hands, staring into its depths as if consulting an oracle. Quietly but distinctly, he sighed, "Thank you." 

John raised his eyebrows. "You never thank me for tea." 

"Tea?" Sherlock blinked in confusion. "You always make the tea; why would I thank you for that? No, I meant thank you for helping and -- not fussing." 

The doctor smiled at him. "Well, I've had a few flashbacks myself. I hated people fluttering about me, trying to make me talk when all I wanted was a cuppa and a few quiet moments to gather myself." 

"I thought I had this figured out," Sherlock said pensively. "I sorted through my experiences and put them in their places in the mind palace. Some I placed behind locked doors, but I didn't realise about ... triggers." 

"They're tricky," John agreed. "If I could delete things the way you do, I would have deleted heat and sand and the smells of gun oil and blood ... but the worst flashback I ever had was triggered by a handful of pistachios." He shrugged. "That's the thing; you just never know what's going to do it." 

"Pistachios?" Sherlock wondered, then backtracked: "Oh! I'm sorry; you probably don't want to talk about it..." 

"No, it's fine " his friend assured him. "Our unit had been gifted with a huge tin of pistachios, and we were all just gorging ourselves silly on the things. But that night saw some of the worst action of the war. I wound up on my feet for 32 hours, trying to stitch up an endless stream of kids who had been mashed into hamburger." 

"Sounds horrible," Sherlock murmured. "My war was much smaller than yours, but I'd count it a war nonetheless." 

"Your mission to take down Moriarty's web?" 

"Yes, the mission." He laughed mirthlessly. "Sounds like proper James Bond stuff, doesn't it? But James Bond manages his missions without getting...grungy." He finished the tea and stood to pace. "I wound up covering a fair bit of the globe, but not the lovely places. Alleys, warehouse districts, fleabag hotels, docks, and finally, a stretch of wilderness in a remote corner of Serbia. It'd been confirmed that was the last bit -- and, of course, that's when I got captured." 

John frowned in surprise. "Captured? I never knew that. I'm assuming Moriarty's people don't subscribe to the Geneva Convention." 

"I should say not." Sherlock sighed ruefully and folded himself into his chair. "You're probably imagining they dragged me into a dungeon made of concrete and steel. The interrogation room was like that, but between sessions, they kept me in a disused stable. Straw bedding -- none too clean straw, at that. It was winter, but they kept that stable sweltering, so the colony of horse flies that came with the place was active. They would settle on my wounds after the torture du jour, and of course, my hands were shackled, so I couldn't brush them away. Towards the end, I got too weak to shake my head hard enough to keep them off my face, and they would cluster around my eyes and the corners of my mouth. Strange, isn't it? A fly on your face -- that's nothing in terms of pain. I'd been whipped, beaten, and burned -- but those flies nearly did me in." 

John gaped at him, horrified. "Have you had any treatment for the aftermath of torture? Psychological treatment, I mean?" 

"You mean therapy?" Sherlock sneered. "I told you, I processed the experience by organising the memories in my mind palace." 

"But it didn't work, did it? You can't just organise this away; torture takes specialised treatment. Sherlock shook his head, but John pressed on. "All you have to do is mention it to Mycroft, and he'll have the finest experts in the world at your beck and call. Or, if you don't want to involve him, we can research it together." 

"Always there for me," Sherlock murmured. "You were there in Serbia, you know." 

John raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, what?" 

"Not literally, of course." He tapped his temple. "Mind palace John. Next best thing. Your voice in my ear, constantly. You even slapped me once." Sherlock chuckled at John's look of consternation. "I had decided to stop breathing, and you weren't having it. You bullied me into taking another breath, then another, and another. You literally coached me to live. 'Breathe in. Now out. Again. Again. Keep breathing; keep living; stay alive; come home.'" His voice cracked on the word, "home." 

John was beside him instantly, kneeling by his chair to be at eye level. "And you made it. You're home." He covered Sherlock's hand with his own. His friend blinked at the contact, but did not pull away. He had schooled his features back into his stoic mask, but John could see how fragile it was. "You don't have to hold your feelings in, you know, " he coaxed. "It's probably healthier if you don't." 

"Ridiculous," Sherlock growled. "I didn't cry the whole time it was happening. Why would I do so now?" 

"Because now it's safe?" John offered. 

That did it. Sherlock did not cry, exactly, but he melted, dropping his head on John's shoulder and letting the other man gather him in. For the first time since early childhood, he lowered his defences and let himself be held while he breathed in gulps of air that smelled of aftershave and fabric softener; books and chemicals; dust and violin rosin. 

Home. 

Safe. 

Home.

-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> I was stretched out on the couch one summer eve, and a fly...one of those loud, buzzy kinds...was making circuits of the room, stopping to land on my nose each time. After a few repetitions of this, I flipped myself the other way on the couch, feet where head used to be. Durn if that damn bug didn't adjust its path to land on my nose again! As I got up to fetch a fly swatter I thought, "This is torture." My brain being thoroughly Sherlocked, a bunch of synapses clicked, and this fic was born. Let me know what you think.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
